


Homecoming

by Kalimyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill: Mycroft has been out of the country for a couple of weeks/months, all they've really managed is very frustrating phone/skype sex. Now Mycroft is back and it's taking all their self-restraint not to jump each other in the airport.</p>
<p>Once back home, rather than fuck each other senseless - Mycroft ties Lestrade's hands to the bed and proceeds to fuck him very, very slowly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

The first week isn’t so bad. Greg is busy with work, he’s always busy, and he knows Mycroft has far more on his plate. It’s not uncommon for them to go a few days, even a week, barely seeing each other. Since they moved in together there are at least overlapping moments at home, waking up to find Mycroft fast asleep beside him, or coming home to find Mycroft dozing on the couch, waiting for him. But even then, when they’re both tired, they don’t have the energy for anything more than crawling into bed, curling up together, and exchanging a few murmured words.

So really, going a week without seeing Mycroft doesn’t seem all that different. By the second week, though, Greg is starting to feel it. No quiet evenings stretched out on the sofa, watching telly with his head in Mycroft’s lap, Mycroft usually reading and idly stroking his hair. No long Sunday mornings in bed, drinking tea and reading the paper, Mycroft leaning against him and telling him the answers to the crossword. No afternoons where Mycroft drops by his office, casually kidnaps him, and takes him for lunch or coffee or, on several memorable occasions, a quickie. No warm hands on his shoulders after a long day, no funny stories of various high placed politicians and the little secrets that Mycroft effortlessly divines, no soft voice murmuring in his ear as Mycroft takes him slowly, sweetly.

When he gets home to an empty flat on Friday, Greg sighs and leans against the door. The flat is quiet and dark, and he turns on the telly just to hear someone else talking. He walks into the kitchen, then pauses when he sees a package on the table, neatly wrapped in brown paper. There is a note on top, and he recognizes Mycroft’s meticulous, perfect handwriting. He’s already grinning as he picks it up, and presses the paper to his nose. It smells just faintly of Mycroft’s subtle, expensive cologne.

_Greg,_ the note says, _Please accept my little gift. It is with entirely selfish intent, I assure you; I find it unbearable to go without seeing you for so long. If you are amenable, call me tonight at nine._

Greg tears eagerly into the package. He’s usually pretty careful about accepting gifts from Mycroft; the other man tends to spoil him terribly and sometimes he’s a little uncomfortable with the idea of being a kept man. But if it means he gets to see Mycroft, he’s willing to make an exception.

He unwraps a sleek new laptop, with a built in camera lens at the top of the monitor, and grins. Within ten minutes he’s located the skype program (with Mycroft’s contact information already listed) and gotten ready, lying sideways on the bed with the laptop in front of him. He’s still got his clothes on but he can’t deny the tingle of anticipation that has him half-hard in his pants. They’ve never had phone sex before and the idea of seeing Mycroft, watching him get himself off, Greg touching himself at the same time, listening to that smooth, cultured voice of his giving explicit instructions… well.

Mycroft comes online promptly at nine and Greg initiates the connection. The machine hums, and there is Mycroft, looking prim and unruffled as always in his suit, sitting on a hotel bed. “Ah, Greg,” he says. “I’m glad you called.” There is a slight delay between the image and the sound, giving Greg the odd impression he is watching a badly dubbed movie, but he can ignore it.

“Hi,” Greg replies softly. “Miss you.”

Mycroft’s eyes soften. “And I, you.”

“How is Amsterdam?”

“Beautiful,” Mycroft says. “And too far from home.”

“Wish I could’ve gone with you,” Greg says.

Mycroft nods. “I find myself thinking of you often. It’s quite distracting. Especially,” he adds, “because I have not allowed myself to come since we were last together.”

Greg’s breath catches in his throat and his eyes widen. Mycroft still looks perfectly calm, but for a telltale flush of colour on his pale skin. “Jesus, Mycroft,” Greg mutters. He’s gone fully hard, just like that, and he shifts on the bed. Mycroft’s eyes follow the motion, missing nothing.

“I almost lost my discipline last night,” Mycroft continues. His voice has gone low and intent. “I kept thinking of that time we couldn’t wait, you remember? I stopped by your office to give you a ride home and we were in the backseat, with the screen up between us and the driver. I gave you a kiss hello and then I couldn’t stop. You were delicious, Greg, you always are, intoxicating. I put my hands on you and you made that _sound…_ ”

Greg presses a hand to his cock through his trousers and his hips stutter. He’s leaking, his zip a hard line against the skin, too tight but the friction is just on the good side of painful. He moans softly, biting his lip.

“Yes,” Mycroft purrs. “ _That_ sound.” He’s breathing harder now, visible only from the shoulders up but Greg can see his arm moving, shoulder flexing as he rubs himself. “I couldn’t stop thinking of the way you looked, positively debauched, on your knees in the back of my car with come all over your lips. You begged me, do you remember? I thought of that and almost couldn’t stop myself. I came right to the edge and had to hold onto the headboard to keep my hands off.”

“Oh god, Mycroft,” Greg says brokenly. He can picture it, the way Mycroft gets when he’s close, the way his back curves and his stomach muscles all go taut, the sound of his breathing in those ragged, desperate gasps. The idea of him stopping there, hanging on the edge, is too much and Greg undoes his trousers and shoves them down to his knees. He curls one hand around himself and squeezes, then strokes, groaning in relief.

“Good,” Mycroft says, “just like that. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“You,” Greg replies. “You, touching me, your mouth, I want your mouth. I want you sucking me, and putting your fingers in me, I want to feel it. Want it rough. Want to feel it for hours afterward.”

Mycroft closes his eyes and licks his lips, making a soft _unh_ sound. “Oh,” he says, panting now. “Oh, I need to touch you.”

“Yes,” Greg says. “I can’t see you, I need to see you. I want to see how you’re touching yourself.”

Mycroft reaches, and the view changes, the laptop turned to one side on his end. Now Greg can see his open trousers, his cock standing out from his undone fly, his hand curled around it. Mycroft has soft hands, smooth, manicured, and Greg knows exactly how they feel. He can imagine it but his own hands are very different, rough and callused, and they’re not what he wants. He wants Mycroft’s touch, his skin and his scent and the slick, perfect slide of his tongue.

“It’s, oh,” Mycroft groans. “It’s good but…”

“Yeah,” Greg says. “Yeah, I know. Can’t see your face, My, I want…”

There is more movement, and Mycroft edges backward on the bed so there is more of him in the frame, but there isn’t enough space and Greg can only see parts of him. He suddenly misses Mycroft with a sharp fierceness that makes his chest ache. He wants to be there, he wants the feeling of Mycroft’s weight on him, touching head to toe. He wants the heat, the salt taste of his skin, the soft thumping of his heart where they press together.

Mycroft makes a frustrated sound. “You’re so far away,” he says.

“I know,” Greg agrees. Mycroft is still stroking himself, but slower now, and Greg can feel the mood change. He forces a smile before it can become too melancholy. “Two more weeks, be over before you know it. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Mycroft tilts the screen so they are face to face again. “There will be a driver to pick me up.”

“I want to.” Greg leans closer, touches the screen, rubs his thumb over the image of Mycroft’s cheek. “I don’t want to wait a second longer than I have to.”

Mycroft’s smile goes shy, the way it still does sometimes when Greg catches him by surprise. “Greg,” he says, soft.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “Me too.” 

He glances down at himself, only half-hard now. He can see that Mycroft’s arm has stopped moving as well, and they share a wry look.

“Do something for me?”

“Of course,” Greg says.

“Will you wait? You can tease, but I don’t want you coming without me. I’ll wait too.”

A slow smile stretches across Greg’s face. “We won’t make it home from the airport. Hell, we might not even make it past the nearest broom cupboard.”

“Really, we’re both grown men, not teenage boys,” Mycroft says. “I’m sure we can maintain a reasonable level of decorum.”

“This, from the man who once crawled under my desk and sucked me off in the middle of Scotland Yard.”

Mycroft colours a bit and his eyes shine. “Yes, well. Consider this an exercise in discipline.” His gaze sharpens, grows challenging. “If you don’t think you can do it…”

“Oh, I can do it,” Greg retorts. “When you get home, I’ll be the most disciplined bloke you’ve ever met.”

Mycroft quirks a sly grin at him. “Yes,” he murmurs. “That’s the idea.”

*

By the end of the third week, Greg regrets his bold words. Surely Mycroft would understand if he bent the rules just a little? Using his hands is out, but when he wakes up hard one morning, so hard his skin is tingling and pre-come is beaded on the end of his cock, he forgets and gives himself a firm squeeze. It’s gorgeous, sending curls of pleasure through his belly and ripples of gooseflesh up his back. He gives the foreskin a gentle twist with his fingertips, rubbing around the slick glans, and groans. Then he remembers and pulls his hand away. He bites his lip, whines through his teeth, squirms. Then he rolls onto his belly and lets his weight press his cock against the mattress. His hips jerk forward automatically and oh, the friction of the sheet is almost too much but if he gets off like this it doesn’t really count, does it? He’s not using his hands. It’s almost like a wet dream. That has to be allowed.

He rocks his hips, moving the pressure up and down, and spreads his legs wider. He brings one hand around to his arse and trails his fingertips up the cleft, then presses a little harder, teasing over the opening. Doesn’t count if he’s not touching his cock, he’s sure the rules allow for that, and even if they don’t he doesn’t think he can stop now. Another teasing rub along his perineum, his back twisting as he tries to reach, cock aching where it’s pinned against the mattress. Just few more pushes, he’s already far too close.

Then his phone chimes, buzzing on the nightstand. Greg freezes. He could keep going, but he’s been with Mycroft long enough to know his ways. He sighs and grabs the phone. One new message-- _That’s cheating. MH_

He taps out a rapid reply: _Spying on me is creepy._ His phone chimes again less than thirty seconds later. _Discipline, Greg. You promised. MH_

Greg sits up and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay, I promised,” he says aloud to the empty room. “Sorry. Got carried away.” He waits, and his phone buzzes again. _I sympathize. I nearly got carried away watching you. MH_

Greg grins. “Then quit spying on me!” he says, but without any bite. It was weird at first, the way Mycroft always seemed to know where he was and what he was doing, but after a while he got used to it and even began to appreciate the feeling. He’s not sure if it’s exhibitionism or what, but knowing Mycroft is watching makes him stand a little taller as he walks naked to the bathroom for a cold shower.

*

By the fourth week, Greg is ready to crawl out of his skin. They’ve had three more skype conversations, teasing each other every time, not quite finishing. Mycroft called him just the night before, late, when Greg was already in bed. He whispered to him, told him all the things he was going to do once he got his hands on Greg again. He talked until Greg begged him to either stop or let him finish. Mycroft stopped. Mycroft is, evidently, pure evil.

He shows up at the airport early, as if this will also make Mycroft land early. It does not. He winds up pacing in the lobby. They won’t let him go to the gate, not without a ticket, and it’s possible he could get past that by flashing his police ID but it would only mean pacing in a slightly different location. He watches the arrivals board, and a shiver goes through him when he sees Mycroft’s flight show up. He takes a deep breath. _Discipline,_ he thinks. He’s not a kid anymore and he’s not going to jump into Mycroft’s arms like a hormone soaked teenager.

People begin coming down the stairs, shuffling in that tired and rumpled way of all airline passengers. Mycroft stands out among them like a Ming vase among clay pots. His back is straight, his shoulders wide and level, his suit lying perfectly on his trim frame. Not a hair out of place, he’s a long, clean line from the pressed crease of his trousers to the precise angle of his jaw. When he sees Greg, his eyes go sharp and predatory, and he licks his lips, but his even stride doesn’t falter. He walks right up to Greg, right into his space, until they are inches apart and Greg can feel the soft warmth of his breath on his face.

“Greg.” Mycroft’s voice is low, somehow _filthy_ , with that one word.

Greg grips the railing he’s standing beside, not sure if it’s holding him up or holding him back. He wants to climb Mycroft like a tree, wrap his legs around the other man’s waist and bury his face against Mycroft’s neck and breathe him in. He rocks on his heels, leaning forward, not quite touching. “Hi,” he says. He’s not sure if his voice is steady or not. He can barely hear it over the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears.

Mycroft edges a little closer, until he can whisper in Greg’s ear. “I’m going to take you apart when we get home. I’ll have you on your knees begging for more and then I’m going to give it to you until you think you can’t possibly take another second but I won’t stop. I’ve wanted you every single day I was gone and I’m going to take you every way I imagined.”

Greg shudders and sways, and Mycroft steadies him, his hands on Greg’s shoulders. Even that touch is enough to send heat racing over his skin. He turns his face toward Mycroft, wanting a kiss, but Mycroft steps back. “Not yet,” he says. “Patience.”

“ _Patience_?” Greg growls. “Mycroft…”

“Shh.” Mycroft turns, setting a rapid pace for the door. “Anthea has my things. There will be a car waiting for us outside. Quickly, now.”

Greg doesn’t need telling twice. One of Mycroft’s ubiquitous black cars is waiting at the curb and they slide into the backseat. The windows are tinted dark, a privacy screen up between them and the driver, and Greg straddles Mycroft’s lap, grabs his face in both hands, and kisses him until he can’t breathe. He’s aware that the car is moving, that Mycroft is gasping against his mouth, that his hands are tangled in Greg’s shirt, tugging at it eagerly, but that is all secondary to the glorious pressure of Mycroft’s cock against his, hard through his trousers. Greg grinds against him and moans into the kiss.

“Mycroft,” he says, “Jesus, My, you _fucking tease_ , do you have any idea how bad I want you right now?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, drawing the word out into a hiss between clenched teeth. “Yes, yes, oh,” but his hands are pushing Greg’s hips away and that’s the wrong direction, that’s no good at all, and Greg whines in frustration.

“What are you _doing_?” he asks, trying to push close again.

“When we get home…”

“No,” Greg cuts him off. “Now. Not waiting until we get home.”

“Discipline,” Mycroft chides.

“Fuck discipline,” Greg snaps. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Mycroft’s voice is strained, but his hands are still steady and deceptively strong, holding Greg in place. “If you cannot control yourself,” he says, “then it is up to me to do it for you.” And something about the undercurrent of meaning makes Greg go still.

“Do you mean what I think you mean?” Greg asks, but he already knows the answer, he can see it in the eager glint of Mycroft’s eyes. His stomach flips and he feels a flutter in his chest that he can’t properly identify. Anticipation and arousal and fear and excitement all muddled together. He swallows hard and takes a measured breath.

Mycroft nods. “Now sit still,” he says, the note of command already coming into his tone. “I promise, you’ll get everything you need.”

Greg sits still, pressed against Mycroft’s side, his heart in his throat and his cock hot and aching in his pants. They ride the rest of the way home in silence.

*

Mycroft pushes him through the door of their flat, his hands on Greg’s shoulders, crowding and chivvying him up the stairs. He’s steady, but Greg can see the need thrumming under the surface, can see the hot flush in hectic patches on his cheekbones and the awkward gait as he tries to walk fully hard. As soon as they’re through the door to the bedroom Mycroft is tugging at his clothes, stripping them away with none of his usual finesse, letting them land crumpled on the floor. Greg goes to help but his hands are gently slapped away and he obeys, letting them drop to his sides. He climbs onto the bed when Mycroft steers him in that direction, and he sprawls naked on his back, watching as Mycroft peels away the layers of his suit. Mycroft’s hands are trembling but he manages the buttons well enough, his eyes never leaving Greg, racing greedily up and down the lines of his body.

When he gets on the bed, he brings both their ties with him. Greg looks at them, then back at Mycroft, and wordlessly reaches up to grip the headboard.

Mycroft presses a kiss to his forehead, close-mouthed and gentle, in silent thanks. Then he ties Greg’s hands, the silk snug around his wrists, looped around the wooden slats of the headboard and holding him firmly in place. Greg gives a little tug when it’s done, and a strange feeling goes through him. All his muscles relax just a little, tension evaporating, and it’s something like relief and something like that feeling at the end of a long day when he curls close to Mycroft and lets out a long breath and Mycroft’s arms go tight around him.

“Beautiful,” Mycroft says, and presses a kiss to each of Greg’s wrists, just above the ties. Greg looks up at him. He’s still hard, his heart thumping heavily in his chest and his skin hot and tingling, but he feels quieter now.

Mycroft kisses his throat, nibbling the skin, and mouths the line of his collarbone. He trails more kisses down the center of Greg’s chest, open-mouthed and damp, leaving circles of heat. He pulls one of Greg’s nipples between his lips and tugs, gently, then laps at him, flicking with his tongue until Greg squirms. Mycroft smirks and switches to the other side. Greg turns his head to one side, presses his face against his arm and pants for breath. He can feel the stickiness on his belly where he’s leaking steadily, and the hot throb of his nipples as Mycroft gives each one a little bite, just enough pinch to skate up to the edge of too much without tipping over.

“Mycroft,” he says, (pleads) not sure what he’s asking for.

“Shh.” Mycroft kisses lower, almost ticklish over Greg’s belly, then licks the line of his hip, where the skin is stretched thin and tight. Greg twitches and leans, trying to get Mycroft’s mouth where he really wants it, but Mycroft holds him down and licks again. He nuzzles, using the faint scrape of his jaw and the soft glide of his tongue in turns, leaving bright trails of sensation all over Greg’s hips and inner thighs. Going lower, he carefully takes one testicle into his mouth and rolls it, sucking lightly, and Greg throws his head back and makes a sound like a kettle boiling. Then Mycroft does the other one.

Mycroft waits until he opens his eyes again, then looks up at him and breathes over the head of his cock. The heat and moisture are impossible, tantalizing, maddening, and Greg arches and shoves himself toward Mycroft’s mouth. He gets the slightest touch, a soft rub of his lips, and then it’s gone.

“Mycroft!” Greg’s hips won’t stop shifting, bucking helplessly up into empty air. “Please, please, _please…_ ”

“Turn over,” Mycroft says and Greg scrambles to obey. His arms cross as the ties keep them in place and he ruts twice against the mattress before Mycroft lifts him onto his knees. There is a click and then, glorious, two fingers slipping silkily over him, smooth and warm and dripping with lube. Greg pushes back, eager, and Mycroft gives a low chuckle.

“Now,” Greg moans, pushing back again. “Now, come on, I’m ready, been ready forever.”

“Some things are meant to be savored,” Mycroft says. He slides the fingers in, but slowly, so slowly. Greg can feel every bit of the stretch, can feel himself parting gradually around Mycroft, swallowing him up. He can feel the soft pads of Mycroft’s fingers, smooth against his skin, long and elegant, curling just so, brushing teasingly over the edge of his prostate.

“Mmm,” he whines, and widens his knees, opening himself a little more. “Oh, like that, deeper.”

Mycroft will not be hurried. Greg can feel the rush of his breath, hot over his arse cheek, Mycroft watching his hand disappear into Greg from right up close. He pushes until both fingers are in all the way to the hand, and then rocks them, rubbing just a little. He pulls them out just as slowly, and then pushes them back in, slick with more lube. Greg is shaking now, up on his knees with his hands still tied, head resting on his crossed arms, cock aching and tight against his belly. When Mycroft adds a third finger, the slowness of the stretch feels like something sweet, like warm honey filling him up.

Greg whimpers in protest when Mycroft’s hand leaves him, but then he feels the slippery, blunt pressure of his cock and changes immediately to moans of encouragement. Mycroft pushes, easing in past the minimal resistance, Greg so stretched and slick that there’s no burn, just a sleek glide of skin. Greg braces his hands against the headboard and presses back, trying to get more, but Mycroft (damn his omniscience) sees it coming and moves with him. He’s just got the head in, stretching him, holding him obscenely open and Greg writhes and rolls his hips.

Mycroft is slow, but he’s relentless, advancing a little at a time without a moment’s rest. Greg can’t catch his breath, can’t make his mind focus on anything but that push, that feeling of being filled. Mycroft is careful with his angle and he eases right past Greg’s prostate, teasing but not enough pressure to satisfy. Not yet.

It seems to take ages before he’s fully seated, his hips flush against Greg’s arse, his cock a heavy heat pressing hard inside him. Greg rocks his hips, wanting the friction, the rub. Mycroft puts a hand on his back to steady him. “You feel amazing,” he says, and even his voice is slower, deeper. “Every time I thought of you while I was gone, every time I touched myself and teased and wanted, I imagined this. The way you feel, tight around me, the way you look, stretched so open.”

“Yes,” Greg says. “Wanted this too, fingers are never enough, when you talked to me last night I had three in me, pretending it was you. Almost came. Would’ve if you hadn’t stopped me.”

Mycroft pulls back about halfway and then slides in again, slow, making that _unh_ sound again. “I could tell,” he murmurs. “I could hear you, hear it in your voice, your breathing. You were close.”

“Were you too?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft says. “I remembered what you did, that morning you nearly let yourself go. The way you pushed against the mattress. I watched you and I wanted to be there, I wanted to tell you what to do. I wanted to lean over and put my mouth on you, rim you as you rubbed off until you couldn’t hold back anymore.”

Greg shudders and pushes back again, arching his spine. “Oh god, come on, harder.”

Mycroft doesn’t go any faster but he grips Greg’s hips and pulls him, changing the angle until he’s stroking directly over his prostate with every slow, deliberate thrust. Greg loses all the strength in his legs and hangs there, suspended between Mycroft’s hands on his hips and his own hands tied to the headboard. He rocks with each thrust, making helpless sounds, a string of nonsense words wrung out of him.

He’s not sure how long it goes on; feels like forever. The constant stimulation is enough to take him to the edge, enough to make him gasp for breath and make small, pleading sounds and babble encouragement and curses in turn, but it’s not quite hard or fast enough to push him over.

“Mycroft, fuck, please, you’ve got to… please touch me, let me, I have to, oh…” He tugs at his tied hands, then shudders and stops struggling as Mycroft pushes in another long, perfect glide.

Mycroft lets out a ragged breath and finally, _finally_ snaps his hips forward a little faster. “I love it when you beg,” he says.

“Please,” Greg replies, eager. “Please, please, if you want me to beg I will, I am, anything, _anything.”_

“Yes,” Mycroft growls, and the next thrust rocks Greg forward on his knees and strokes hard inside him, right where he needs it. He’s losing the edges of his control now, crumbling, his thrusts growing fast and frantic and Greg pushes back into each one, moaning in relief.

“Please,” he mumbles again, “yes, oh, I need, touch me, god I’m so close.”

Mycroft’s hands are slippery with sweat, sliding against his hips, shaking and fumbling across his belly. Greg can hear the way his breathing changes, going sharp and short, can feel him trembling. Then he gets a hand around Greg’s cock and makes a fist and Greg keens and thrusts into it, pushed through the tight circle of his fingers every time Mycroft slams into him.

They’re past any kind of coherent rhythm now, Mycroft moving in shuddery, ragged waves. Greg lets his weight rest on his bound hands and forgets to breathe as Mycroft’s hand tightens around him. Then Mycroft pushes in one last time, all the way in, and he cries out and comes in hard pulses. Greg can feel every twitch, can feel the wet heat, and that’s all he needs to send him over.

Mycroft takes him through it, rubbing his fingers just below the head of Greg’s cock, coaxing out more shivery waves of pleasure. He strokes until Greg squirms away, oversensitive, and then he presses a tired kiss to the center of Greg’s back.

Greg makes a soft sound as Mycroft slides out of him. He can identify physical sensations; the warm trickle of come down his thigh, the faint ache in his knees, the pressure of the ties around his wrists. Beyond that, he has no idea what he’s feeling, his head completely empty.

He stays like that, on his knees, head down, swaying slightly. Mycroft undoes the ties and makes a concerned _tsk_ sound when he sees the red lines left on Greg’s wrists. He brings one, then the other to his lips and kisses them. “All right?” he asks.

Greg gives him a dazed blink. He’s not ready for speaking yet. Instead, he curls up on the bed and puts his head in Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft smoothes his hair, cards his fingers through it. It’s a familiar sensation, and Greg recognizes it as something Mycroft often does to comfort him when he’s feeling down. Eventually, he connects that idea to the slightly worried expression Mycroft gave him earlier.

“Amazing,” he says. He takes Mycroft’s hand and presses a kiss to the palm. “Perfect.”

Mycroft lets out a breath, and Greg can feel the tension run out of him. “Good.” He slides down to lay beside Greg and gathers him into his arms. Greg goes willingly. He presses his face into the hollow of Mycroft’s neck and wraps his own arms around him, sliding his hands up and down Mycroft’s back. He wants to feel all of his skin, wants to gather the sensation of it up and store it away. Something to take out and savor the next time Mycroft far from home.

“Missed you,” Greg says.

Mycroft kisses his temple, holds him a little tighter. “Greg,” he says, soft, almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “Me too.”

*


End file.
